


while i'm on this phone, a hundred miles from home

by catacombhearts



Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: Drunk calls, F/M, I love these kids and their determination to make it work, Long-Distance Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 05:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16361318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catacombhearts/pseuds/catacombhearts
Summary: Peter’s face flashes across the brightly lit screen and she pulls up the menu bar, dimming the brightness, before tapping the green button.“Hi.”“Hey there drunkie.” Peter’s voice is low, and she has a feeling he’s doing it out of consideration for her head, which makes her feel better than she’s felt all day.“Oh my god,” she remembers most of the night, up until the end, where the shots seem to have had a delayed effect.





	while i'm on this phone, a hundred miles from home

**Author's Note:**

> this is a mix between the movie-verse and the book-verse!
> 
> title comes from blue october's 'calling you'

“Peter _Kavinsky_ ,” Lara Jean sings into her phone, giggling while doing so. She can tell her voice is high pitched, even through the weird _whooshing_ vibrations going on in her head, but just thinking about her funny voice makes her laugh harder.

She blinks, frowning down at her phone, which tells her she’s been on a phone call for all of forty-five…six…seven seconds, and that it’s to Peter.

Peter Kavinsky.

Her boyfriend.

Man, she really loves him. Peter, her boyfriend.

She should tell him.

 _Oooh!_ That’s what the call is about! Right, right, right.

“Peter Kavinsky,” she starts again, singing his last name in a higher note. “I love you. You know, there was a time I didn’t love you. I thought you were kind of a dick, but I know _now_ that you’re not a dick. You’re so sweet and nice and not a dick. I mean, you have a dick. It’s nice too. I like it. Thank you for that by the way…”

She continues her train of thought before trailing off, blinking down at her fingers, which are tingling a bit.

Her whole body is a bit tingly and warm. That’s weird.

“Wait, what—Oh, right, Peter Kavinsky, I love _you_.” She thinks she should say something else, about the gold flecks in his eyes, or the way his nose scrunches when he smiles, but instead she just lies back on her bed and enjoys the tingling feeling on her skin and the happiness fluttering around in her stomach.

She warmth spreads and her mind goes a bit fuzzy. It's as if she's been wrapped in a warm cocoon, like when Peter cuddles her close making her feel warm and safe and so incredibly  _loved_. Somewhere between that thought and the next, her eyelids become heavy and the world begins to fade.

Lara Jean wakes to the sound of her phone alarm, blaring loudly and incessantly on the floor. She can’t move though, because her entire body is in sheer _agony_.

Her head throbs, her mouth is dry, and her throat burns.

The warm, tingly feeling from last night is now an inferno eating her alive.

Her alarm keeps screaming at her though, so she moves, despite the tremors in her head that it causes, to shut it off.

It's light outside, that much she can tell through her curtains. Her alarm is set for her early Monday morning class but that was cancelled yesterday, which is why she agreed to go out with Maddie and Hollis in the first place.

Though she can hear people mulling about, she can’t seem to do more than lift a few fingers, and opts to stay in bed instead of joining the land of the not-hungover.

Somewhere, in-between her encouraging herself to at least sit up and her dramatic monologue over how she’ll just have to die here alone in this bed instead, she falls back asleep.

When she wakes the second time, it's once again because of her phone.

This time it's a phone call. Peter’s face flashes across the brightly lit screen and she pulls up the menu bar, dimming the brightness, before tapping the green button.

“Hi.”

“Hey there drunkie.” Peter’s voice is low, and she has a feeling he’s doing it out of consideration for her head, which makes her feel better than she’s felt all day. 

“ _Oh my god_ ,” she remembers most of the night, up until the end, where the shots seem to have had a delayed effect.

She knows she sang the UNC anthem loudly with Hollis on the way to the dorm, that she dropped her keys into her pants for some reason and Maggie had to watch her fish them out while trying not to laugh…then it becomes a bit fuzzy.

Her friends had gotten her into her room, dressed her in sweats and a big shirt of Peter’s, and left her with a glass of water on her side table that she notes now is half-empty.

She doesn’t remember ever drinking any, but apparently she had.

At least, she hopes she did and not that she knocked it over and spilled some in her drunken state.

The last truly coherent thought she has is that she had been so close to sleeping right before she had an idea that was so important she had to do it _right then or else._

The idea, however, is lost on her.

She obviously didn’t leave her dorm room, nothing in her room seems amiss, and her phone doesn’t seem to have any odd texts or snaps to random people in the middle of the night.

The unknowingness of it all bothers her more than the queasy feeling in her stomach.

“Do you know what I did last night?” She asks, because if anyone would know, it's Peter. She tells him everything, even when she’s drunk.

“Yeah,” he drags out the vowels, mostly to annoy her. He’s good at that, annoying her. Normally she wouldn’t mind, because he only riles her up just to calm her back down, but she’s hungover and not in the mood.

“Peter.”

He huffs into the phone and she can hear the faint edge of amusement. It irritates her even more. “Calm down, Lara Jean, you just called me.”

“Oh,” she lets out the breath she’s been holding and snuggles deeper under her covers. “That’s not too bad.”

“Baby,” he laughs then, and it’s at his normal volume, causing her to pull the phone back and wince a bit, “you have _no_ idea.”

Blinking, she sits up a bit too quickly and the world shifts. Mumbling to herself, she presses her fingers to her temples and waits until everything comes back into focus. Peter is still there, quiet on the other side and she knows he’s waiting not-so-patiently to tell her the rest.

She makes him wait just a bit longer; mostly because she wants toast and applesauce so that she can take some Advil, but also because she’s feeling a bit petty.

She knows he knows this too, and yet he waits, filling the silence with details from his less than eventful night.

(Apparently, he fell asleep at ten, which is why her call went to voicemail at two-thirty.)

Whatever it is that she’s done, it must have been something, because Peter is rarely ever _this_ patient.

“Okay,” she’s eaten half a piece of toast and two apple sauces (the cinnamon kind, because the plain kind leaves her with a weird aftertaste), much to Peter’s delight and encouragement, and is decidedly as ready as she’ll ever be to hear this, “tell me.”

He laughs again, but it's a low hushed sound, and she feels all warm inside knowing he’s trying his best to help in his own way. “You sure, Covey?”

“Peter, _please_ , it can’t be that bad. What? Did I tell you about my sex dreams? Because, honestly, that’s totally normal and I’ve read that sex dreams are a healthy exploration—”

“Wait—woah, woah, _woah_.” Peter cuts her off quickly, “You’ve been having sex dreams? About me, right?” When she doesn’t immediately reply, because she’s eating, and also because she enjoys making him squirm, he groans. “Lara Jean, they better be about me and my dick.”

She coughs on her piece of toast, “Peter!”

“What?” He responds so innocently that she narrows her eyes and something tells her he knows she’s doing just that by the tone of his voice. “You left me a very sweet voicemail last night. Telling me how much you love me…and my dick. Hey, remind me never to make fun those books you read again.”

Lara Jean balks, her thoughts filtering out until there’s nothing but white noise and she doesn’t even register that she’s dropped her phone until Peter’s voice breaks through the veil, loudly, and with purpose.

“Lara Jean!” He yells again, no longer keeping his voice low.

“I’m here,” her voice is a bit breathless, the way it is after…well, _after_ , and Peter sighs into the speaker. It’s comforting, his sigh, and she can almost feel the rise and fall of his chest as if he was here with her now.

“Did you pass out?” He asks skeptically and she snorts.

“No. I think I _did_ go into shock, however.”

“I don’t understand what the big deal is,” he’s moving around in his room, she can hear the faint sounds of a drawer opening and closing, and by the look of the light peeking out from her curtains, dimmer and warmer than the bright morning sun, it’s getting close to the time he needs to leave to make it to practice. “I _am_ your boyfriend.”

“The big deal is,” she breathes out, trying to rub away the ache in her chest with the ball of her hand, “is that I talked about your dick, Peter.”

“Yeah, so?”

She shakes her head, smiling despite herself, because these things just don’t bother Peter.

Of course, if it had gotten out, the way the hot tub video did, then it would, she knows that without a shadow of a doubt now.

But, when it’s just between them, inside their own protective bubble, Peter doesn’t see the big deal about these sort of things.

Which is why she’s received more than her fair share of…raunchy snaps from her boyfriend.

(Not that she minds, of course, because her boyfriend is very beautiful and she appreciates every part of him equally.)

It’s just hard for her to feel the same way; even though she shares everything with him anyways, and he’s seen all of her— not just the physical aspects but also the emotionally raw parts of her too, the parts of her she’s kept hidden from even Margot— some more intimate things are harder to share.

Even with the one she loves.

“Covey, listen, I don’t want to sound…” he pauses, and she knows he’s trying to find the right wording, “conceded or cocky or anything, but it was kind of nice hearing you say that stuff.”

He used to, she thinks, seem conceited and cocky, and a sort of a dick—

Oh.

Oh _no_.

“Oh my god, did I _thank_ you for having sex with me?”

Peter laughs, full and unabashed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Immediately, she thinks of the yearbook quote she chose for him. And the first conversation they had after her received her letter and she kissed him in the hallway.

 _Of course_ , she would thank him, and _of course_ he would respond in kind.

It would be their thing, if it wasn’t for the love letters.

She would smack him if he was here. Right on the shoulder and he would let her because he knew he deserved it.

 _Such a dick_.

Still, Lara Jean finds herself stifling a giggle due to the ridiculousness of it all. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“Me either,” he sounds a bit stunned himself, caught up in the sheer absurdity of what drunk Lara Jean is capable of. “Hey,” his voice has gone soft, gentle, and Lara Jean can picture the exact look on his face when she closes her eyes, “you know I love you, right?”

“ _Peter Kavinsky_ ,” she sings, even though her voice catches at the end, heavy with emotion, “I love you too.”

“And my dick.” He adds on purpose, just to make her laugh.

It does, and something loosens a bit in her chest. He loves her, this boy who’s slowly becoming a man, slowly changing in front of her. He loves her and she loves him too, just as much.

“Hey, maybe we can Facetime tonight instead?”

“Yeah,” he’s getting ready, she can hear his shoes hitting the ground followed by the loud noise of tape ripping as he preps his stick. “That’d be good. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my girlfriend’s beautiful face. She’s stunning, you know, my girlfriend.”

With an embarrassed laugh, more at the thoughts going around in her head, rather than Peter’s attempt to be cheesy, Lara Jean closes her eyes and lowers her voice just so. “It’s only been a day since you’ve seen my face. Anyways,” she continues before he can reply, “I was thinking you’d be seeing more than just my face, Peter.”

“What— _Oh_. Oh. That’d be…I mean, only if you’re comfortable with it…" He clears his throat, "Yeah, babe.”

Peter Kavinsky at a loss for words is a very rare moment indeed.

She savors it, tucking it alongside the other memories of him she’ll never, ever forget.

“Text me when you get out of practice.”

“You know I will.” There it is, that cocky tilt to his voice, it’s how she knows he’s smiling that perfect Peter smile. It's the one she used to think was for everyone, but really, it had only been just for her.

They say their goodbyes, and even though she hasn’t showered and her breath smells like a mixture of morning-breath, alcohol, and apple sauce, and even though she feels like garbage _still_ , she pushes out of bed and smiles.

Sitting down at her desk, she pulls out a pen and paper, and decides to write Peter a love letter unlike any of the others he’s received before.


End file.
